Rain

I’m sitting on my lopsided chair, on the sanded stoop of my little banda that I take a leak off in the middle of the night, the lakeshore not five metres in front of me. I intermittently have to pick ants off my legs … there is really no point however as they always find their way back, persistent little buggers. I am wearing my newly acquired ‘Beach Park Fortaleza’ T-shirt that I picked up in Mzuzu to work in, it is already heavily stained by cement, soil and sweat.

This morning my feet were cold. They haven’t been since I’ve been in Malawi. It rained from at least when I awoke [5.30] till lunchtime. Not the flashing heavy torrent of tropical rain that breaks up the night, more like London rain … grey rain, slow rain. The sky was heavy and relentless in colour, from the horizon touching Tanzania over the lake to the tops of the escarpments behind.

Unbeknownst to them, I have been locked in a game of cunning with the nightwatchmen over the last couple of mornings. It concerns my morning coffee, which in turn concerns my morning shit. Two mornings ago they locked the kitchen-cum-parlour, so I had access to the fire hearth, paraffin heater and water but not to the coffee. I could also get to the coffee strainer stored in the bar/eating area on the beach. Last night, after just missing out on scorching my eyebrows with the paraffin cooker, I remembered to move the coffee to the cooking area smug in the knowledge that I had out-foxed Elias and Mr Lidini. This morning I started heating my water, grabbed my coffee and went for the strainer … it had been locked in the kitchen. The game continues.

So I ventured out in the rain to the construction site, unawares that people don’t work when it rains. The 10 minute walk through the village was different than usual. Despite the fact I was concerned with dodging the growing puddles on the sand paths, I noticed less people about. No Mama’s giggling as I got my morning greetings mixed up with my afternoon ones, or even my ‘second meeting of the day’ ones. The site was deserted apart from Steven Kamanga, the hard working labourer and part-time nightwatchman, and a pretty 16 year old girl who wanted to marry a white man as they have ‘too much’ money, both sheltered under the makeshift shed/eating area/shade. I tried to convince her, through Stevens’ translating skills, that money doesn’t matter but am pretty definite that it fell on dead ears. It was just as well that it was raining, as I was going to tell the workers that like yesterday, there would be no work today unless the roofer turned up. Work was supposed to start last week, but instead the roofers’ daughter was buried. I returned to my banda and read another book – The Last Family in England, which is ok. Yesterdays was a cracker – The Time Travellers Wife, comes highly recommended by me.

I returned to the site once the sky had briefly cleared up at 2 this afternoon. ‘Oliver’ Tambo, the illiterate labourer who likes my cigarettes, and the two brickmakers and concrete slab specialists Mr Pirri [boozing Muslim] and Musisya were all pissed. They had been drinking the local brew … compot. Compot is fermented Maize, looks and has the consistency of vomit, and tastes like really bad cider. It’s not too alcoholic, but will get you drunk if you drink enough. Four guys had ploughed through ten litres in the afternoon, and the fourth, the foreman George, had plodded off to get some more. It is served in 10 litre plastic buckets, the type you would use with a mop to wash your formica floor, the colour of our offending bucket was bright green. I sat under the shelter with Tambo and drunk a mug at his invitation. We mainly stared occasionally at one another, unable to converse due to he being wasted and not speaking English and me not knowing much Tombuka, and watching Mr Pirri and Musisya operate the manual brickmaking machine with comical consequences. The inebriated Mr Pirri proudly introduced me two of his children whilst showing me the new concrete slab covering the shit-pit. Vincent was shy after I extended the formalities in English, he was quickly admonished by Mr Pirri in a swift bark of Tombuka, where I picked out the words ‘UK’ and ‘school fees’. Tina was also shy, but my attention was drawn to her companion by virtue of her clothes. A shoeless 12 year old girl wearing an ugly leopard skin evening dress with thin straps and folds down to her knees … clearly a discarded fashion faux pas made by a European, given to a charity, finding its way to Mzuzu clothes market, and ending up on a school girl in Usisya.

I am a celebrity. I don’t like it much, and am starting to understand why Britney is loopy. First thing in the morning I get waved to by the fisherman, serenely paddling their canoes past my stretch of private beach, as I stumble to the water for my wash in my boxers. All the Mamas and Bwanas greet me as I walk past, though greeting one another isn’t unusual in Usisya, unlike London. Walking through the village, it isn’t long before I get cocooned by small children who have swapped their paparazzi cameras for gawps. Some ask for money. Some yell “AAAIYOOO” [Translation: “Hello”], inadvertently expertly mimicking the ‘Team America’ parody of Kim Jong Il. Some pluck up the courage to ask me “What is my name?” [Translation: “What is your name?” – Some English teacher has a lot to answer for, though I have made it my mission to re-programme the children of Usisya to ask someone their name correctly in English]. Some cry when encountering a Mzungu like me. One, George the Foremans son [the comedy isn’t lost on me], pissed his pants when I came near. Most however simply gawp. My favourite kid is a little retard who lives near me. He isn’t affected by the requisite invisible barrier surrounding me, which seems to repel other kids when they feel they have got too close [though not the really small kids who 10 at a time clasp a finger each to walk me down a path]. Unrestrained by any form of shyness, the retard will always run up to me with his filthy T-shirt, no trousers and wait till I have picked him up and swung him round a couple of times. I always oblige, mindful of his dirty arse and little penis. He always lands with a thump quickly falling to the floor in a fit of dizzy giggles.

My laptop is running out of battery. Hopefully tomorrow back to work, and I think I’ll head to Nkhata Bay for Easter weekend … If I can get there of course.